


Insufferable

by valamerys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: (who are still enemies), Enemies to Lovers, Hatesex, M/M, [because GAY], [some joke about being in the closet], fall court, rhycien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: A long, long time ago, long before Feyre came to Prythian, two princes with a penchant for snarking at each other got stuck in a closet together. Needless to say, they made out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was in response to a tumblr prompt a while back (Rhys x Lucien, trapped in a small space + very attracted to each other) forgot to post it here at the time. MIGHT expand on this into a series of snapshots of Rhycien through the years??/ mostly I want to write smut for them and I WILL, SOONER OR LATER. anyway, have at it, welcome to my latest ship hell

“Get off me, you idiotic–”

“You’re the one who’s on me, _you_ get off.”

But there is nowhere to go, and after a few moments of futile struggle, Lucien is forced to settle with his shoulder wedged against the door, half being poked by the cleaning supplies sticking from the shelves in this comically small maintenance closet, and half with Rhysand flush against him, their limbs askew and intertwined as they’re posed to avoid randomly hung buckets and mops.

Lucien swears and Rhysand asks, almost incredulous, “does the Fall Court not believe in adequate storage space?”

“Couldn’t you just replace all their memories with giant squids or something?” Lucien snaps in response, “Cauldron boil me, you’re supposed to be this all-powerful godlike creature and we’re hiding in a closet–”

Rhysand puffs out a laugh and Lucien can feel it on his ear. “I _am_ an all-powerful godlike creature, first of all. And there should be an ‘extraordinarily handsome’ somewhere in there too.”

Insufferable. _Insufferable_. That he _is,_ in fact, extraordinary handsome, and the slight implication that he knows Lucien thinks that… there are so many awful people in this court it seems impossible that Rhysand could introduce him to new ways to hate a person, but here they are, pure frustrated loathing coursing hot through Lucien’s veins as they hide from the Fall Court guards.

It is entirely Rhysand’s fault, a stunning highlight to this diplomatic trip that seems to have been planned with the specific goal of making Lucien’s life difficult every turn. Today Rhysand had been taking an uncomfortably close look at one of the Fall Court heirlooms, when he definitely had no business being unaccompanied in the vaults–Lucien had stumbled across him and must have startled him, because Rhysand dropped the precious glass artifact he was inspecting, and the sound of shattering was met with cries from the guards and the sounds of approaching boots. A mutual look of fury and fear–neither prince wanted to be associated with the crime, much less face Beron’s wrath for it–and they’d taken off down the hall, since winnowing was magically disabled in the palace. Lucien had been the one to pull them into a closet as the guards drew closer, and as Rhysand’s elbow digs further into his side, he regrets it fervently. His father’s retribution–or almost anything–would have been better than enduring this. It’s pitch black in the closet, and the darkness is heightening his other senses: Rhysand is warm and firm against him, and Lucien is discovering nuances in Rhysand’s scent, thick between them, something like saltwater under the citrus-musk, and he likes it and he _hates_ that he likes it.

Rhysand goes on after a pause; Lucien suspects it’s because he can’t handle the mere suggestion that he’s less powerful than he’s supposed to be.

“In any case, the peace between Night and Fall is tenuous–”

“It gets more tenuous with every passing second of your knee jamming into my thigh.”

Rhys pauses to make a huffy little show of being interrupted. “–As I was saying, _is tenuous_ , and tampering with will or memories leaves traces, if you know where to look. Your father employs people who know where to look. I’d like to not endanger that peace by giving anyone cause for suspicion.”

“Yes, we certainly wouldn’t want _you_ , sneaking around the vaults alone and fondling ancient magical items, to seem suspicious.” Lucien loads it with as much venomous sarcasm as possible.

“Interesting word choice.”

“Oh, you’re going to distract me from your snooping with innuendo? Very mature behavior from a High Lord apparent.”

“I’m not the one who said _fondling.”_ A pause, and Lucien can _hear_ the filthy smirk in Rhysand’s voice when he adds, low and breathy, “And I could distract you with a lot more than innuendo, if I wanted to.”

The points where their bodies press into one another suddenly feel very heavy, and the air around them very thin. Lucien is going to kill him. He’s going to set all of Rhysand’s clothes on fire at once; even if Lucien gets third degree burns by proximity and/or murdered by Night Court spies in retaliation it’ll be worth it.

“Do you just go through life assuming everyone in the world is insatiably attracted to you?” He hisses.

Rhysand hums faintly. “Mostly. I tend to be right, though.”

How can he be so casually haughty, so at ease in this ridiculous pose they’re holding? How in the world does this not phase him?

And what would it take to break that cavalier composure of his?

Lucien feels the urge to try, one way or another, throttle him or kiss him, something, anything, to bring him down to some part of Lucien’s emotional level of lusting contempt. He manages, with great effort, to ignore it and lie instead.

“Consider me an exception.”

“Really?” It’s an amused little purr. “You’ve never thought about me _fondling_ anything other than glass trinkets?”

“Incredibly, I find arrogance something of a turn-off,” Lucien bites out.

“I’m not sure I believe you. Maybe I should rifle around in your head and check.”

“Stay the _fuck_ out of my mind, Rhysand,” Lucien snarls; aware that it’s bait, rising to it anyway. “I catch you trying to get past my shields and I swear I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Mouth off to me some more?” Rhysand says, sharply, baldly. Lucien feels thin fingers find his face in the dark, finds himself paralyzed with equal parts fury and _heat_ as Rhysand traces the shape of his lips, his jaw.  “That temper of yours is going to get you into trouble, little Lucien. I hope you get as good at finishing things as you are at starting them.”

The nickname is too much.

Lucien snaps with something like a growl in his throat, and they collide with the clatter of cleaning supplies, door rattling as Rhysand shoves him against it, lips hot and seeking against Lucien’s. Hands grapple ungracefully, pulling, tugging, digging into clothing, both of them seeking to _take_ ; Rhysand tastes like sweat and the dust of the room and a bittersweet darkness, and Lucien is all teeth in search of more of it.

“You bit me,” Rhysand grunts, although it doesn’t stop his hand’s frenzied ascent up under Lucien’s now-untucked shirt to touch his bare chest.

“You called me Little Lucien,” Lucien pants petulantly, as Rhys latches onto his neck, sucking out his revenge.

“Well you _are_ proving me wrong, aren’t you?” Rhys palms the generous bulge of Lucien’s hardening cock by way of explanation. “Not so little.”

Lucien holds back a groan, instead gritting out, “Fuck, I hate you.”

Rhysand chuckles, and Lucien kisses him again, rough, sloppy, just so he’ll shut up, for cauldron’s sake—

And then the world is bright, and they’re both tumbling backwards. Lucien hits the ground hard, arousal interrupted by the painful weight of Rhys landing almost entirely on top of him.

The poor maid who opened the door—and managed to dodge out of the way before her prince and the foreign dignitary he’s clearly making out with tumbled out—stands there in absolute shock, a hand clasped over her mouth.

“Sorry,” Lucien apologizes to her vaguely, feeling his shame return to him with his sense of sight.

———————

Rhysand rights himself and slips away before Lucien can finish calming the frazzled, embarrassed maid, and is mercifully absent for the rest of the day, as Lucien grows more and more mortified about the event. By the time he retires for the night, he’s considering hiding in his room for the remaining days of Rhysand’s visit and also maybe the rest of eternity.

But he opens the door to see Rhysand, calmly inspecting the contents of his desk.

“What are you doing here?” Lucien blurts, too surprised and lingeringly embarrassed to put any real hostility behind it.

Rhysand puts down whatever he was playing with, walks over to where Lucien is rooted to the floor with that brand of disaffected self-assurance that reminds Lucien: he hates him, he hates him, _don’t_ make out with him again–

“We weren’t finished when we were interrupted earlier,” Rhysand murmurs, and kisses him.

_Arrogant, entitled, presumptuous, insufferable, insufferable, insufferable–_

Lucien’s resolve crumples like wet paper and he kisses him back, Rhysand’s night-cool aura washing over his senses, making him forget why this was ever a bad idea. Somehow they end up stumbling towards the bed, Lucien gripping the back of Rhysand’s neck as they tumble onto it.

“It’s Rhys, not Rhysand, when you come,” Rhys manages to get out against Lucien’s lips, somehow still imperious when he’s underneath Lucien, both of them flushed.

Lucien swears softly. “Only if you promise to stop talking.”

 

 

join me on [tumblr](https://valamerys.tumblr.com/) 2 get nonsense like this when it's fresh out of the oven! or to yell at me for not updating other things. whichever.


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